She said, "In the box the compartment what the 'ell you call is chauffeur's 'at."
"You want me to wear a chauffeur's 'at?"
"Not that I want, but that I suggest. Also I suggest you should 'urry."
Something in her eyes told him not to argue. He slid into the seat and found the blue cap. It was a bit small but not hopelessly so. Bolan put it on, added his dark glasses, cranked the engine, and eased out of the garage.
They were stopped immediately at the curb just outside by a uniformed policeman. A quick glance right and left disclosed a swarm of them in the immediate area. Bolan's heart went into a tango and his mind shifted into survival mode. He had a hand on the door mechanism, waiting for the cop to step over to him, his thoughts racing ahead to the moment when he would make his move, catch the cop with a flying door, and try the breakaway on foot.
But the cop did not step over to Bolan. Cici Carceaux had her window down and was scooted to the edge of the seat, giving the guy a smile that would light two square blocks of Paris. The cop touched his cap and bent almost double in the sudden recognition. He murmured, "Bonjour, Mlle Carceaux excusez-moi." To Bolan he gave the slightest flicker of a glance and the command, "Continuez."
Bolan did so without delay, easing the big car onto the street and around to the boulevard. Police vehicles were all over the place and a dozen or more uniformed cops were on the walk in front of the hotel. He cruised on past, and not until the scene was completely lost in the rearview did he relax enough to ask his passenger, "Okay, which way to the Riviera?"
"Is this all you 'ave to say?"
He shrugged. "It's a sensible question unless you want to end up in Brussels."
She was slithering over the backrest and moving beside him in a flash of well-filled nylons. "Follow the signs for Lyon," she directed breathlessly. Then she snatched the chauffer's cap from his head and removed the glasses. "Why do the police swarm all ovair for Gilbear?"
"Is that what that back there was about?"
"This you know! I encounter them in the lobby. They are confer with the desk and go up in great numbers to make the arrest. Uh-huh, it becomes more clearly to Cici, this masquerade. Gilbear is in great trouble, no?"
"No," Bolan responded, quite honestly. "It's all a misunderstanding. Gil isn't in trouble. Those cops, Cici. Any chance of them putting one and one together and coming up with you and me?"
She stared at him for a silent moment of confusion, then: "Oh, no. I do not think they even notice Cici, they-are so occupied with othair things."
She settled daintily into the corner of the seat, against the door. Bolan could feel her eyes on him. Street traffic was practically non-existent, it being that dead period in Paris between the two worlds of night and day. They were moving swiftly along now, the powerful Rolls engine pulling them on effortlessly through the quiet streets.
He glanced at her, caught he direct gaze, and asked, "How far is Cannes?"
She replied, "Eight, ten hour, depending on the 'aste of the driver."
He whistled softly. "That's quite a drive."
"This is your fault, stand-in. I would 'ave been aboard Train Bleu and more than 'alfway to Cannes but for you."
Bolan said, "I'm sorry."
"You do not look sorry. You look most 'andsome and appealing. Anyway I am not sorry. This is superior to the day train, an endless and boring journey. I say this for your benefit. The same train from Paris goes also to Marseille and Nice."
"Something wrong with French airlines?"
"For some, no. But for Cici, I will await angel's wings, not pursue them."
He grinned and told her, "You're pretty close right now. Uh, your accent is smoothing out. What became of the long e?"
She laughed and moved closer to him. "I am the natural fraud! Sometimes I do not know what is Cici and what is the cinema image."
"And what does that mean?"
"When I am cast in American films, I am told 'ow to accent the English. In Italian films, 'ow to accent the Italian. Even in French films, 'ow to speak the French. Sometimes I do not know what film I am speaking."
"Sounds confusing," Bolan muttered.
"Yes, it is confusion." She moved closer and her hand crept inside Bolan's arm.
He said, "Uh-uh."
"What this means, uh-uh?"
"It means you're tangling up my gun arm."
She giggled and pressed her head against his shoulder. "M'oui, thees ecs threeling!"
Bolan experienced a deep irritation. He growled, "What film are you doing right now?"
She pulled away, sobering quickly. "I apologize, stand-in."
Quickly he said, "No, I'm the one that's wrong. I, uh... thanks for getting me out of that mess back there."
Following a moment of silence, she told him, "I can speak the English better. I know 'ow."
He smiled. "You're still dropping your h's."
She made a long face and replied, "The h is not a French sound. I will nevair do the huuah it is like throwing out something that is not wanted. Language is the same as life, as love it is a giving of something treasured, something of great value. I will not give it with the huuah."
Bolan sighed. She was telling him something while not actually saying it. A point of ethics. He said, "Okay, Cici, I'm the fraud. And you could be in great danger. I'm going to fade away when we reach the edge of town."
"No! I do not wish that you fade away!"
He glanced at her and said, "Look, this is no film, it's raw life. And you might find out just how raw it can get. I can't..."
"No!" She moved back onto his shoulder. "Take me to Cannes, stand-in. I have a villa a 'ouse on the coast." She nuzzled his arm and added, "The raw life is there also."
Bolan could believe it. He silently debated the question, finding it more and more difficult to face what he knew to be the proper decision. He had no right to involve this woman in his difficulties, yet he could not find the strength of character to refuse her demands that he do so. They drove on in a continuing silence and suddenly they were whizzing along free and clear on the highway to Lyon and she was snuggled against him the decision was lost by default and Bolan was telling himself that he would get out at the next town.
At that next town he found that she was quietly sleeping, her soft and regular breath falling upon his neck just beneath the ear, and he went on through without slowing. The magic of her had its way and, by the time he made the first service stop, Bolan was telling himself that the danger lay behind them now, that there was no necessity for the noble sacrifice; and the golden moments of Eden were seeming more and more accessible and desirable and reasonable as a goal to pursue.
Cici awakened as he pulled into the service station, lightly brushed his throat with her lips, and got out to freshen herself.
Bolan stood by while the vehicle was being serviced, then he paid the attendant and went to the rest room. When he returned, a carton of soft drinks and a small bag of snacks were on the seat. Cici was in the telephone booth. She saw Bolan and immediately returned to the car. She said nothing, but began poking about in the bag of snacks. Bolan started the car and returned to the highway.
She opened a soft drink and handed it to him. "I was trying to call Paris," she told him.
He accepted the bottle and said, "Trying?"
"I did not get through."
Bolan accepted that without further question. She unwrapped a candy bar and gave it to him. "Turn on the next Route Nationale to your left. This will save us some time."